My knight in shining silk’s name turns out to be Olivia Danvers. “It’s my firm belief that there’s nothing in the world a good chocolate glaze can’t fix,” she says, waving her half-eaten donut in the air. She smiles at me from across the formica table of the diner down the block.

“You’re right,” I agree, not caring that creme filling is probably smeared half-way down my face. “This sugar rush is almost enough to make me forget the mess I made up there.”

“Ouch,” Olivia says, looking sympathetic. “Who went and stomped on your heart?”

My cheeks heat. “Oh, it wasn’t— I mean, it’s not something that serious. Just a job interview. I don’t know why I got so upset.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Olivia says, although I can’t imagine her crying in public—even if she just got told she had two days left to live. I’m still not sure why this sleek and polished vision of competence decided to take pity on me. Maybe it’s her charity work for the day. Either way, I’ll take the sympathy—and the Boston creams.

“What kind of job? Are you a writer?” Olivia leans forward on her elbows. I’ve never met anyone whose elbows looked elegant before, but ladies and gentlemen, this is her. I’d bet even her belly button is a portrait of sophistication.

“No, a photographer,” I answer, brushing sugar off my blouse. “At least, I’m trying to be. It’s . . . not exactly going to plan. I got mauled by half a dozen rabid shih-tzus yesterday, and the editor barely looked at my portfolio. Like she was just passing the time. Waiting to give the position to some girl who earned it by being a daughter of some important friends.” I sigh. “I know it’s all about who you know in, well, life, but I figured at least I’d have a shot if someone saw my work. Unless my work is the problem.” I stop and furrow my brow. “Maybe I’ve just been kidding myself, and I should go find a portrait kiosk in a mall somewhere to ply my trade. At least I like novelty Christmas sweaters. And babies.” Visions of my future dance before my eyes, until Olivia politely clears her throat.

“Here, have another donut.”

I take it and flush. Why did I babble all that to her? She must think I’m certifiable by now. But Olivia is watching me thoughtfully. “You clearly lead an interesting life.”

“I suppose,” I reply. “I mean, that’s the artist’s life, right? And I don’t mean, artiste, all pretentious or anything, just, trying to make your own path, do something creative. I did the ‘sensible’ thing for years,” I add, in case she thinks I’m one of those naïve people who woke up one day and decided to live my dreams, to hell with, you know, actually making rent. “I worked in an office, booking meetings and running paperwork, but it just wasn’t the same. I wanted more. I figured if I didn’t make the leap now, I never would. But my safety net is all spent, so I guess I’m face-diving straight into oblivion.”

Shut up, Hallie! Oh, God, I sound pathetic. I stuff the rest of the donut into my mouth before I can spill my guts even more.

“It’ll be okay,” I manage to mumble through a mouthful of lemon filling. “I always bounce back. If I could wrangle Jack Callahan for four years, I can find a way through this.”

Olivia’s eyes brighten. “Who did you just say you wrangled?”

I swallow the donut. “Jack Callahan. You know, the tech investor? I was his assistant.”

“Oh, I’m aware of Mr. Callahan,” Olivia says. “I try to stay on top of all the important movers and shakers in this city. Working for someone that influential must be stressful.”

Her tone prompts an answer. The way she’s looking at me, I suddenly feel as if I’m in the middle of a test I didn’t know I’d sat down for. I lick the powder from my lips. “It wasn’t exactly a picnic, no. But you learn how to read the person’s moods, when to say ‘yes sir’ and when to tell them they’re being a total ass. Once I got the hang of it, there weren’t any problems.”

“Excellent.” Olivia smiles. I must have passed the test, but I still don’t know what she was testing me for. Not neatly eating donuts, I’m pretty sure. I’ve got the powdered sugar all over my sleeve cuffs, too. Damn.

As I brush it off, Olivia reaches into her purse again. This time, she produces a business card: stark black lettering on ivory linen paper. As elegant as she is.

“I think we’re both in luck today. Your interview may not have worked out, but I might have a job for you. It isn’t photography . . . but it could give you a leg up in the ‘who you know’ department.”

I accept the card and examine the text. Olivia Danvers, The Agency. An address on the Upper East Side.

“There’s some paperwork you’d need to do before I can explain further.” Olivia stands up, tucking her purse under her arm. “If you think you might be interested, come by that address tomorrow.”

“I . . .” I stop, confused. Is she trying to be mysterious, or am I just missing the point?

Olivia gives me a graceful little wave goodbye. “Lovely to meet you, Hallie. I hope to see you soon.” Then she breezes out the door before I can say a word.

I stare at the card again.

The Agency.

There’s no other information on the card, but as I run my finger over the heavy paper, I feel something embossed on the bottom corner—invisible to the naked eye.

It’s a heart.

---

My favorite camera shop is on the way to the subway stop—if I take a quick detour of about seven blocks. The side trip is worth it. I need to remind myself of my goals. Keep my mind focused on making that dream a reality. Or something like that. I might be mixing up two of the different self-help books I skimmed through after I quit my job with Jack to make it on my own.

The scruffy guy behind the counter raises an eyebrow as I hurry past. I hope he hasn’t been keeping track of how many times I’ve made this pilgrimage in the last few months. I come to a stop in front of one of the glass cases and sigh with pure longing.

Move aside, Hemsworth. Step aside, Hiddleston. The most handsome sight in the world is right there in front of me. Sleek, dark body. A full set of lenses, more megapixels than I’d know what to do with, a processor that’s practically magic . . .

Come to mama.

I set my fingers on the glass, ogling the finest camera I’ve ever seen. I probably look like an orphan in a melodrama peering from a wintry street through a bright restaurant window. Oh well. No one’s here to see me except Scruffy Dude.

It’s perfect. I could take on Mount Everest with that baby. Possibly Mount Olympus too. We’re talking mythic scale, all right? All I need to do is cough up seven grand and—

Excuse me while I die laughing.

My phone rings. My heart leaps. Some part of me still believes it could be Ms. Editor calling to say I got the job. Like I didn’t hear her giving it to someone else right in front of me.

I check the screen, and that hope goes the way of the dodo. Not anyone from Carlisle Publishing. Not the new boss I was aiming to take on. It’s the former boss I walked out on. I wince and hit the answer button.

“Hello, Jack,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Hallie.” He’s frustrated. By now I can tell that in just two syllables. His British accent comes out in full force when he’s annoyed. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know where the hell the mock-ups from the Faraday presentation got to?”

The Faraday presentation. My mind leaps back into Jack Callahan’s office as if I never left it. “Have you checked the cabinet to the left of the elevators, second shelf from the top?”

“I have not.” There’s a rustle as he strides over. He sighs. “And there they are. Thank you. And I’m sorry for having to ask. My new assistant is terrible.”

“How many temps have you gone through so far?” I can’t help asking.

“I believe this is number five. Although normally I’d have counted on you to keep track of that. I hope you’re having a spectacular time at the expense of my wellbeing.”

“You survived all those years before I came around.” I smile. “I’m sure you’ll manage without me now.”

“Hmm. I’m glad you’re confident about it, at least.” He pauses. “But seriously, now that I’ve interrupted whatever important thing you were doing, how is the photography business? Everything’s going well?”

My stomach flips. I can’t bear to admit the truth. Not that he’d make me feel bad about it. No, he’d probably insist on helping. And that would be way worse.

“Everything’s great!” I say, with all the brightness I can summon. “Lots of gigs, some interesting clients.” The ones who think dogs make appropriate wedding attendants, for example. It isn’t a total lie.

“Best decision you ever made, then. All right, no need to rub it in. I’ll go back to stumbling around without you.”

I roll my eyes. “You do that.”

My heart feels heavy as I put the phone away. I look at the display case.

Jack would buy that whole setup in an instant if I even mentioned it. He’d call up every business he’s worked for and talk me up for every possible gig. I know that. But this is my dream, and I’m supposed to be pulling it together on my own. It wouldn’t be the same if I let someone else just waltz in hand it to me. It wouldn’t feel like I deserve any success that came with it.

I tap the glass in front of the camera. “I’ll be back, baby. I promise. With a lot more cash in my wallet.”

Next time. I don’t want to walk into this shop again without a way of taking that camera home with me.

I stew on that thought the rest of the way home. As I set my purse on the counter, I remember my donut stop. I dig out Olivia’s card and study it again. She invited me to drop by—and promised it would help with my career.

I trace the hidden embossed heart again, intrigued.

What the hell. What’s the worst that could happen?